


Stargazer

by akindofmerrywar



Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 10:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30138369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akindofmerrywar/pseuds/akindofmerrywar
Summary: Jaskier strides into the living room, his favourite blanket balled in his arms. He stands directly between Geralt and the TV, which is currently showing a documentary about… something. Jaskier doesn’t stop to check what.“Come on,” he says, trying to sound authoritative. “Get your shoes on. Time to go outside.”Jaskier convinces Geralt to go stargazing with him. Geralt reluctantly agrees - even though the tradition holds some painful memories. As he stares up at the dark night sky, he realises something about himself - and Jaskier. Previously posted in a group of oneshots.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Waiting For You to Come Home [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1913770
Comments: 7
Kudos: 73





	Stargazer

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic was originally part of a collection of one-shots, which I'm now splitting into separate fics. If you've already read this: hello! Welcome back. If not, please enjoy!

Jaskier strides into the living room, his favourite blanket balled in his arms. He stands directly between Geralt and the TV, which is currently showing a documentary about… something. Jaskier doesn’t stop to check what.

“Come on,” he says, trying to sound authoritative. “Get your shoes on. Time to go outside.”

Geralt peers out the window at the pitch-black sky, then back to Jaskier. “You’re in the way.”

“I’m aware. Are you coming?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The meteor shower, Geralt. The whatchamacallits. The Perseids.”

Geralt blinks.

“Come on, Geralt, I know you watch them every year, so-”

“What?”

“You _told_ me. You said about Vesemir, when you were a kid, and then…” _Shit, don’t mention Yen,_ “...later. After you moved out. Are you coming or not?”

Geralt looks dumbstruck. Finally, he speaks. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it.”

Jaskier dumps the blanket on the sofa next to Geralt and folds his arms across his chest. “Oh, don’t be a grump,” he says, “it’s _stargazing_ , for Melitele’s sake. Even _you_ can’t get grumpy about _stargazing_.”

“Hmm.” Geralt makes a dedicated attempt to continue watching the TV through Jaskier. 

“Look,” says Jaskier, sternly, “I know that… I know that you usually do this with Yen. Or you _have_ done, for the past however many years. I know it’s shitty, thinking about it. But gods, Geralt: do you know how many exes I watched those fucking stars with? Dozens! And even though each of them left me a _wounded_ and _broken hearted man_ …” Geralt rolls his eyes at that, and Jaskier suddenly knows he’s on the right track, “you know what I do? I watch them every year anyway. Because they’re _my_ stars, and I’m not having some shitty ex ruin that for me.”

He pauses. Geralt is staring at him.

“Not that Yen’s shitty,” he adds, quickly. “Heartbreak is shitty. As a… a concept.”

Geralt stands, suddenly. Jaskier backs away. “Uh…”

“Okay.”

“...What?”

“Okay,” repeats Geralt, grabbing the remote and turning off the TV. “Garden?”

And he stalks past him. Jaskier shrugs, grabs the blanket, and hurries after him into the dining room, where Geralt is pulling open the patio doors. Jaskier knows by now not to question Geralt’s occasionally unpredictable moods, and ducks under one of his arms outside.

“Come on, then,” He says, tossing the blanket onto the plastic patio table and grabbing one side.

“What are you-” Geralt starts, but is cut off as Jaskier begins to tug, the table screeching unpleasantly across the patio. He jumps forward. “Wait, wait!” He calls over the noise, “Jaskier, what are you _doing?”_

Jaskier looks down at the table, then back up at Geralt. “Moving the table,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Geralt blinks at him. Jaskier sighs, and places his hands on his hips.

“Right,” he says, slowly, “I’m gonna move _this_ ,” he points at the table, “over _there_ ,” he points to the centre of the garden, “so we can see the stars better without, you know, breaking our necks.”

“What does the table have to do with the stars?”

“We’re going to lie on it.”

Geralt frowns at him, and Jaskier can see him suddenly regretting agreeing to go along with this.

“It's fine,” he says, rolling his eyes, “It’s strong enough. And it’s this or neck strain. Come on.”

There’s a moment when he’s sure Geralt is going to argue - but he shrugs, then steps forwards and grabs the opposite edge of the table. “Where do you want it?”

Jaskier grins, and together they manoeuvre the table into the centre of the garden, further away from the lights of their neighbour’s houses. Jaskier hops onto it then leans back, lying flat across the surface.

“There,” he says, “now _that’s_ a view. Not even any trees in the way…”

He turns his head and watches Geralt, who pauses, one hand lingering on the cool plastic surface, then walks around and - after a second - slowly heaves himself up onto the table. There’s a creek, but the table is sturdy, and he gently lowers himself down so he’s lying next to Jaskier.

“See?” says Jaskier, smiling, “Told you it’s a better view this way.”

“Hmm.”

“Now…” Jaskier reaches around and grabs the blanket, “all we need to do is wait.” A sudden thought strikes him. “Are you cold?”

Geralt turns to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“I mean,” Jaskier sighs, “do you, ah… want some blanket?”

He isn’t really expecting Geralt to say yes - Geralt isn’t a _stargazing under a blanket_ sort of person, however much Jaskier would like him to be. To his credit, he at least appears to be thinking about it before shutting him down.

“I’m okay,” he says, simply.

“Right.”

Jaskier pulls the blanket up over him, burying his hands into the soft fabric. He lets out a sigh - a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

“You okay?”

Jaskier starts. He must have sounded a lot sadder than he realised. “I… ah… it’s silly.”

“Try me.”

He smiles. “It’s… gods, okay: The shower always used to be just before the summer results at the Academy. I’d go out and watch them, and, you know, it felt like…” he thinks, “like luck? If I saw them, it’d all be okay.”

“And was it?”

“Was it what?”

“Was it all okay?”

Jaskier pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders and turns to peer at Geralt. “...Yeah, it was.”

Geralt doesn’t respond, just continues staring up at the expanse of sky above them, the smallest smile creeping on his face.

“So,” Jaskier says, after deciding that he’s let the silence linger long enough, “you said that your dad - Vesemir - taught you about the stars?”

Geralt chuckles. “Yeah. He did. To this day I don’t know why. He’s always been more… practical.”

“You can navigate by the stars,” says Jaskier, thoughtfully.

“Sure, if you’re a sea-faring Skellige warrior from a thousand years ago,” muses Geralt, “or… I don’t know, some knight errant or mercenary who lived before they invented roads and maps and smartphones.”

“Maybe he was worried you’d get lost. I’ve _met_ your brothers, I know what you’re like.”

“Perhaps,” Geralt says, “or perhaps he figured it was what dads are supposed to do. Camping and star-gazing and building fires.”

Jaskier coughs. “I wouldn’t know.”

There’s a pause. “Anyway,” says Geralt, “he taught me. He tried to teach all of us. I don’t think Lambert was ever listening, though…”

Jaskier snorts. “No, probably not.”

“How did you learn?”

“Oh, you know us creative types,” Jaskier says, “Always looking at the stars and dreaming. Thought I’d actually learn something while I was dreaming, for once.” He stops. The conversation is quickly heading somewhere sombre - a path he doesn’t want to retread. “Where’s Orion?” He says, redirecting the conversation with awkward abandon.

If Geralt notices what he’s done, he certainly doesn’t say - merely points, leaning across Jaskier as he does. “There,” he says, “Over those trees.”

Jaskier follows the line of his arm to where he’s pointing, peering towards the cluster of stars. He’s right - of course - there’s Orion and his famous belt, hung in the sky like someone pinned him there. The majesty of it is lost on him, a little, suddenly aware that Geralt is so close, that their arms are pressed together. Geralt is leaning across him. If he put his arm down, they’d be practically _cuddling_.

He’s grateful for the darkness hiding his blushing cheeks.

“Right,” he says, stiffly. “There he is.” He laughs, nervously. “Hah.”

Geralt moves away, and he can breathe once more. They lapse into silence, staring upwards. Jaskier isn’t sure how long they’ll need to wait - these things have always been hit-or-miss, in his experience. It could be hours before they even-

“There!”

His head snaps around. Geralt is pointing, but Jaskier’s too late - all he catches is a little residual sparkle.

“Crap,” he huffs.

“There’ll be more.”

“There better be.”

He settles back, drawing the blanket tighter around him. It’s a further ten minutes before they see another - faint, but there - zipping across the sky to their left. Then another - and then Jaskier spots one that Geralt misses, and Geralt points out two more that Jaskier is too slow to see.

There’s a sudden lull - nearly twenty minutes pass with an infuriatingly empty sky - and then, suddenly, one darts across right above them.

Jaskier can’t hold back the gasp that escapes him. It’s _huge_ \- the brightest he’s ever seen. The meteor itself is a dazzling spot in the sky and the tail a wake of sparks, like a firework. It burns itself out in a second or so, but it feels like an age.

_“Holy shit_ ,” Jaskier breathes. He feels star-struck - quite literally. “Geralt, that was-”

Geralt sniffs. 

Jaskier freezes. Something’s wrong. “Geralt?” 

“Ciri would-” and then Geralt’s voice catches, his breath hitching. He falls silent, and swallows heavily. 

Jaskier peers at him, his face pointing steadfastly upwards. Even in the dark, his expression is carefully stoic, unreadable. Jaskier wiggles closer, scooting himself across the cool plastic of the table till their shoulders are touching. 

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, quietly, “Ciri would love this. Watching for shooting stars.”

He slowly reaches towards him, sliding his hand out from beneath the blanket. It’s only a few inches between their hands, but it feels expansive. He reaches out till his fingers are brushing against the back of Geralt’s. Steeling himself, and trying to ignore the thundering sound of his blood in his ears, he reaches around, slotting his slender fingers between Geralt’s. His hand is soft - softer than Jaskier had assumed it would be. He gives it a quick, comforting squeeze. Geralt doesn’t say anything - just sniffs again.

But he doesn’t let go.

Jaskier takes that as a good sign. He’s not sure how much time passes - whether it's minutes or hours - before another meteor spins through the sky above them, and Geralt finally unhooks their hands to point it out.

When he places his arm back down at his side, he doesn’t twine their fingers back together. He does, however, press a little closer - the backs of their hands gently touching. Jaskier smiles. It’s good enough for him.

He stares up at the sky and wonders if he should make a wish.

* * *

Geralt can feel his back beginning to stiffen as he shuffles his shoulders against the cold plastic of the garden table. He knows that soon they’ll have to call it a night and head back inside - although he’s no real desire to go.

Another star shoots across the sky, fainter than the last few, the sparkling tail no brighter than the trail behind an airplane. The August night is still mild, and while there’s a chill in the air it isn’t unpleasant. Geralt is aware he always runs slightly warmer than other people - he supposes that’s the reason why Jaskier had dragged a blanket with him.

Beside him, Jaskier is still facing the sky, breathing slowly. He had been right - of course. Geralt would have regretted staying inside and deliberately avoiding the light show, fuelled only by his own bitterness - his stubbornness.

He wonders, sometimes, what keeps Jaskier by his side so steadfastly. He’s been assuming for the past year that Jaskier has chosen not to move out because he’d be foolish to go anywhere else: nowhere else would he find cheaper rent, especially not for a house this size. But it’s clearly more than that, more than just the shared space. 

Jaskier has been around him for, well, he isn’t sure how many years now. He’d assumed - uncharitably, he knows now - that when Jaskier found himself living with him he’d realise just how much of an arse he is and turn away from him. He knew that relationships could be shattered when _friends_ became _roommates_ , and had expected it here, too. He’d dreaded it, in fact, although he would have denied it had you asked him all those months ago.

But it hadn’t happened. Jaskier had stuck, despite everything.

A breeze drifts across the garden, across the table, ruffling his hair. Somewhere far away, a siren wails. He’s gripped by a sudden urge - a hot ache in his chest, needing release.

“Jaskier. I-” he takes a breath, the cool air tickling his nose. “You were right, Jaskier. Don’t laugh; you were. This was… a good idea. Thank you for convincing me.” Jaskier doesn’t respond. Geralt supposes he’s waiting for him to continue - it’s not often that Geralt willingly talks about his feelings, after all. He swallows heavily. “But… not just that. Thank you for putting up with me. And… staying. Staying here. With me.” He feels stupid, now, talking up into the night sky, but carries on - distinctly aware that he’s kept in these thoughts for too long. 

“You...help,” he says, finally. “You make me better. Less of an arsehole. And, gods, I was a _massive_ arsehole. I…” he pauses. He’s glad for the cool breeze, calming his flushing cheeks, “I like having you around.”

It feels like an admission, but it doesn’t really _mean_ anything, not truly. 

He tries again. “I… I _really_ like having you around.”

He sighs. Jaskier is still silent - unusually silent. _Shit_. Was even his hesitant, fumbling confession too much?

He pushes himself up by his elbows, the plastic of the table creaking beneath him. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier, sprawled next to him, is fast asleep. His eyes are shut, and Geralt can see his eyes twitching behind his lids. He must be dreaming. His mouth hangs slightly ajar.

_Ah_.

That would explain his uncharacteristic silence. As Geralt watches, he sniffs, wriggling in his sleep. Even in the dark, his face bathed in shadows, Jaskier is handsome - although Geralt would never say that out loud.

He sighs. He can’t think about this - this _thing_ that’s happening between him and Jaskier. Even that sounds grand, sounds excessive, sounds _wrong_ : there’s _nothing_ happening between him and Jaskier, after all: whatever this is, it’s only happening to _him_. 

No. He’s not thinking about it. He’s not thinking about the quiet, gentle way Jaskier has embedded himself into his life. Not thinking about the way he’s shattered the solitary silence of Geralt’s morning routines with his impromptu shower recitals or the sudden addition of sweet-smelling soaps in the bathroom. He’s not thinking about dancing in the kitchen, about pancakes and floury hand-prints. He’s not thinking about long evenings spent watching movies and the way the space carefully left between them on the sofa has shrunk away to nothing.

He’s been trying all night - with little success - not to think about the fact that Jaskier knows him so well that he remembered that he watches the meteor shower every year. The fact that he knew this year he’d refuse because it had suddenly become _painful_ rather than _nostalgic_ , but had gotten him out with him anyway.

He shuffles towards the edge of the table, which wobbles beneath him, and carefully slides off. Jaskier doesn’t register the way the solid surface beneath him is shaking, and Geralt smiles to himself - he’s always been a deep sleeper. The wind, picking up now and growing ever-colder, buffets at him once more. He can’t leave Jaskier out here, of course, but waking him up feels wrong. He looks so peaceful.

There’s nothing for it. Geralt moves around to the side of the table, bends down, then slides his arms gently beneath his sleeping friend - one beneath his torso and the other hooking into the bends of his knees. He lifts him easily from the table in one quick movement, blanket and all. Jaskier isn’t that much smaller than him, really - perhaps just an inch or two shorter - but Geralt still doesn’t struggle to pick him up. He steadies himself for a second and then turns to head inside.

Carrying Jaskier bridal-style and trying not to think too much about _that_ , he edges through the patio doors, through the dining room and towards the living room. He could probably manage to carry him up the stairs, too, but he doesn’t want to risk Jaskier suddenly waking up and panicking, sending them both flying. 

Slowly, so as not to wake him, he lowers Jaskier onto the sofa. He awkwardly slides his arms out from under him, and Jaskier frowns in his sleep for a moment before wriggling into a more comfortable position. His eyes remain shut. The blanket has fallen onto the floor, so Geralt grabs it and gently places it over him. It’s not really long enough to cover him - his feet stick out of the end, showing off his mismatched, holey socks - but it’ll do. 

Jaskier’s dark, messy hair has fallen across his eyes in haphazard strands. He frowns again, his nose wrinkling and his lips twitching as the hair tickles at his face. Barely even thinking, Geralt reaches out, slowly, and brushes it aside. Jaskier doesn’t register the touch - just continues to sleep, and Geralt lets his fingers linger on the side of his face for a few seconds. The twitching stops, and Jaskier’s face falls into a mask of content sleep once more, his lips slightly parted.

Geralt can’t help but stare. On the road outside, cars zoom past, sending beams of light rushing across the room, dancing across the sofa and the ceiling. Jaskier’s face lights up in strobes. Geralt’s leaning in before he’s even aware what he’s doing, before he can stop himself. Jaskier is like a magnet - like the moon: a _tide_ , pulling him closer. He can feel Jaskier’s deep, sleepy breaths on his lips. 

Something catches in his throat. He blinks. _No_.

“Fuck.”

He pulls away. His heart is thundering in his chest. His hands shake. He jumps up and steps backwards so quickly he nearly falls over.

Jaskier sleeps on.

_Fuck_. Geralt backs out of the room, his heart in his mouth. He heads back into the dining room to lock the patio doors, desperate for something to do. He stands between them for a moment, enjoying the cold breeze. He takes a deep, calming breath, clinging to the door, staring out into the blackness of the garden.

In the sky above, the stars twinkle. He spots Orion again, unmissable in the sky. As he watches, a dazzling meteor shoots across the constellation, dressing him - just for a moment - in sparkles.

Geralt shuts his eyes, then pulls the door closed, twists the key, and heads upstairs.

* * *

Jaskier waits until he hears Geralt’s bedroom door shut before he opens his eyes. His skin is tingling, his heart valiantly attempting to beat out of his chest and throw itself across the room. He sits up, slowly, and licks his lips.

He can still feel it on them - Geralt’s breath, the shadow of a kiss, like an unfulfilled promise.

The blanket slides onto the floor, and he makes no attempt to stop it. His fingers twitch nervously against each other.

He stands, creeps into the hallway and carefully peers up the stairs. It's dark, up there: the tell-tale sliver of light that usually spills from beneath Geralt’s door has gone dark. He’s asleep - or is pretending to be. 

Jaskier takes a breath, and heads up the stairs.

They creak beneath his feet.


End file.
